


Dad's Right There

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Fear of Discovery, Frottage, M/M, Sam is 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: Sam plays dirty sometimes. Dean kind of loves it.





	Dad's Right There

**Author's Note:**

> This... is not what I should be working on. This is nothing but smut.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Sub-tropical rains all week have left everything smelling like wet dog, especially the motel room they’re holed up in tonight, but Dean hauls desperate breaths through his nose anyway. He’s got to keep his teeth clamped together. If he opens his mouth, he’s gonna moan.

He’s still as he possibly can be on the broken old motel bed he shares with Sammy—shares because Dad is in the other bed, snoring his ass off three feet away.

Dean feels the proximity like a target painted on his front, on Sam’s back, despite the threadbare sheet, cheap nylon comforter, and the steady patter of the rain masking what’s happening in this broken old motel bed. His heart is racing. But not just because of that.

Sammy’s got a long, spindly finger up Dean’s ass. It’s slick with lube he pilfered from God knows where—he’s a wily teenager. Dean’s proud of him. Dean also can’t move, or the springs in the ancient mattress will creak. Can’t move, or his brother’s finger will hit that sweet spot harder, and Dean _will_ moan regardless of how tight his jaws are clenched shut. Regardless of consequences.

A laugh huffs out against his cheek. Dean’s eyelids slip closed.

He exhales through his nose.

Dad’s _right there._

The finger buried in his ass twitches, just barely, but enough to send lightning coursing up every single one of Dean’s nerves. His fingers itch. He can’t move, but he wants so desperately to buck up and down on that stupid finger until he comes from that alone. Feels like he could, now. Sam has been teasing him for—He doesn’t even know how long.

His brother is hard against his thigh. Dean’s left leg is propped up on Sam’s right, spread just enough for Sam’s hand to fit. Sam’s middle finger is so long. Knuckles so knobby from being broken on the job. It feels like a toy and Sam’s treating himself like one, letting Dean clench and sweat and suffer while he just nuzzles against Dean’s neck.

Lips drag along Dean’s skin. A wet tongue flicks out between them.

Dean shivers.

“Shh.” Sam emerges from beneath his chin and kisses him, soothing. “Dad’s right there,” he murmurs, barely any sound, just humidity. Like Dean isn’t so fucking aware.

He rolls his hips slowly, digging his own hardness into Sam’s belly. Watches his brother bite a tease-reddened lip. _Yeah,_ Dean thinks, _you know what I wanna be doin’ to you right now. What you’re doin’ to me._

Sam’s response, the little shit, is just to rub the pad of his finger almost lovingly against Dean’s prostate. A spreading warmth becomes prickles of heat. His dick blurts precome into his shorts.

 _Just fuck me,_ he wants to beg. He is, in his head. _Fuck me fuck me fuck me—_

It must be radiating from him, must show on his face something awful, because Sam breaks out the most brilliant shit-eating grin. And he begins to move his finger. In and out. A pantomime of what Dean would beg for _if he could._

“Oh…” Dean breathes. Can’t help it. His eyes roll back just a little, hips pulsing. A whine builds into his sinuses but he shoves it back down into his lungs. _Ah, fuck…_

“You like that?” Sam mouths against his slack lips.

Dean nods, maybe kind of frantically. He does, he really does. Heat is building, the particular kind that means spreading pleasure, shaking, coming, _release._ Fuck if he doesn’t need release. Sam is such a tease, he’s a shitty little tease and he knows exactly what he’s doing—

The finger stops moving at the same moment Dean realizes he was moving with it, against it, hips working in steady jerks that were starting to make the bedsprings mutter.

He freezes.

Behind Sam, John snorts, grunts, the rhythm of his sleep interrupted.

Both boys hold their breath.

The instant that rhythm falls back into its natural order, Sam picks theirs up again. Faster. Stronger. The pulses against Dean’s prostate are clearly a pointed effort to make him come so hard he blacks out, and it just might happen. He’s gaping, mouthing at any bit of Sam’s skin he can reach, eyes unfocused as he gets sucked even further into the hot trench of sensation Sam is etching into his bones.

All he’s thinking is _Sam, Sam, Sam—f-fuck, Sammy—!_

The pleasure plateaus, then shifts gears. Dean grinds between Sam’s finger and solid heat pressed up against him. Sam is grinding too, swivel-dip of his hips a counterpoint to the slow torture he’s thrusting inside.

Dean’s almost there, he’s almost there. He imagines, remembers Sam clenching hot and wet around his dick, slicked up with so much lube they squelch obscene and wonderful as they move together, fucking wildly, lost in it. Lost in each other. Alone for a few blessed hours, all the time they have in the world.

He pictures Sam’s face when his brother came bouncing on his cock, and traces that face right in front of him with wide eyes as Sam digs in, doubles over, and comes with a choked sound caught in his throat. _Beautiful,_ Dean thinks, more image and intent whirling through his mind than words. _That flush, right there; that’s art._ He feels Sam’s dick pulse, a rush of warmth. So fucking hot. Too hot. It tips him over the edge.

_Keep it together—Dad’s right there—_

The fear, the adrenaline, just makes it worse. Better. Too much.

_Oh, oh shit—!_

“Sam…” Dean whines, in danger of letting it out in a high squeal that would certainly wake John up right into full alert, but he can’t help it, can’t hold it in. Orgasm rushes through him, a blush of pure pleasure, his hips jerking as he pumps his load through his boxers into the thin cotton of Sam’s shirt. Making his brother all sticky. Somewhere beneath the glorious haze, there’s a vindictive part of Dean that presses closer. _Wanna mess you up,_ he thinks, clenching around Sam’s finger.

He hisses when Sam draws it out, slow and gentle, but the sound is lost in the rain outside.

They relax in shudders and noiseless sighs. Sam wipes the mess off his finger with the comforter and gathers Dean close into his arms. Dean nuzzles into his brother’s chest. Breathes. He wills his heart to stop pounding so loud in his ears. It’s hard to keep from panting, but he manages somehow.

They’ll deal with the mess in the morning. No sense in risking having to explain. Simultaneous wet dreams is a pretty flimsy excuse.

Dad’s right there. None the wiser...

Dean hopes.


End file.
